


Missed Call

by Se7en_devils



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Human, Based on a Tumblr Post, Derek Hale Can Have Nice Things, Derek Hale sucks at Communication, Fluff, M/M, Miscommunication, Stiles Stilinski Sucks Slightly Less At Communication, Voicemails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Se7en_devils/pseuds/Se7en_devils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins with a voicemail from an unknown number.  And it begins because sometimes Derek is too curious for his own good, and because he has five minutes until Laura finishes making coffee anyways and ten minutes until he needs to leave for class with nothing to do in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missed Call

**Author's Note:**

> Blame [Expelliar-Moose](http://expelliar-moose.tumblr.com). Watch Teen Wolf, she said. It'll be fun, she said. Never once did she say anything about hating it just as much as you love it, or watching everyone you love die terrible deaths. Blame this entire thing on her.  
> And tumblr, since this is based off of [This](http://lycantrophies.tumblr.com/post/79696709107/can-i-get-a-fic-in-which-derek-finds-a-voicemail) post. This is un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. And if you do find any mistakes (especially tense related mistakes, since I'm not used to writing in present tense), don't hesitate to tell me! Enjoy!

It begins with a voicemail from an unknown number.

And it begins because sometimes Derek is too curious for his own good, and because he has five minutes until Laura finishes making coffee anyways and ten minutes until he needs to leave for class with nothing to do in between.  His choices in entertainment are fairly limited, and primarily consist of listlessly staring at the beige wall to his right until his sister yells at him for being the _‘broodiest broody undergrad to ever live’_ or listening to a two minute voicemail from a mystery phone number received at Two Fifty-Five in the morning.

Voicemail it is.

 _“Hey, man,”_ The voice isn’t one Derek immediately recognizes, but he continues listening with the thought that its probably an old acquaintance.  Someone he hasn’t talked to in awhile, or maybe someone he does talk to, just not via not telephone lines and cellular towers.  Maybe someone in one of his classes?  He wonders what they want. _“I heard you got a new phone after the whole Jackson incident._   _Sorry about that…”_ Okay… So maybe it’s not an acquaintance.  Or a classmate.  Or someone he even knows at all.  Which means he should probably stop listening and delete the message - which, of course, is the exact opposite of what Derek actually does.  “ _But hey!  On the bright side, you now have a new phone number which means you’ll be less tempted to talk to Ally, right?  I probably shouldn’t even be mentioning that and - shit.  You’re making the puppy dog eyes, aren’t you?  Yeah, you are.  Sorry?  Just...uh, try not to eat the whole tub of Ben and Jerry's.  Again.  At least let Melissa have some.  Did you know that shit's practically death in a cardboard carton for your arteries?  Because it is.  And...Shit, I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have even brought it up.  But I'll make it up to you, how's that sound?  I promise.  Next time I visit, I’ll buy you dinner at that disgusting diner you love for god knows what reason and you can get your chunky looking strawberry milkshake and the burger you always get that doesn't look very much like a burger anyways and whatever else your little, puppy dog heart desires, ‘kay?  ‘Kay.  Just...uh...call me back when you get the chance, ‘kay man?”_

Dereks sort of huffs when an automated beep signals the end, but keeps the voice message.  He doesn’t end up calling back, because the message obviously wasn’t for him, and if this guy has any brain at all then he’ll eventually figure out he has the wrong number anyways.  And even if he doesn’t figure it out - which he probably won’t, Derek figures - he’ll probably call back again, anyways.  And when he does Derek will explain to him that he has the wrong number, after which everyone can live happily ever after - including Derek’s phone, which can then be thankfully free of random, hyperactive voicemails.

Piece of cake.

 

* * *

 

The guy calls again, but Derek manages to miss him.  Again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And every time he calls, he leaves a message.  

Every.  Single.  Fucking.  Time.  

The messages range from five seconds long to five minutes long - there was one that was eleven minutes long and fifty five seconds, but that was only because the guy was cooking and talking at the same time, and somehow managed to drop his phone in the pasta sauce without completely killing it - and Derek just happens to listen to each and every one of them.  

He’s curious, so sue him.  It’s a perfectly understandable response; a reaction born from wanting to _know._ Primarily, he wants to know who the hell this person is and why the hell they haven’t gotten the hint yet, but...

Unless Derek really _does_ know this person - which he’s beginning to think he might, since they keep calling and calling and calling - but that’s ridiculous.  If he knew this person he’d recognize their voice and if he knew this person then they’d know that leaving him a voicemail is without a doubt the worst way to get a response.  It’s face-to-face contact that’s usually the best way - even if that requires having to stalk Derek to get it.  

Which is a thought that crosses his mind a lot more casually than it should, probably because most of the people in Derek’s life have screwed up definitions of personal boundaries anyways, so really there’s no use fighting it.  And its not like Peter or Cora or Laura or really anyone else who has the surname Hale hasn’t decided that stalking Derek for the day would be fun at least once - so, again, no fighting it.  

Stalking; it’s a Hale thing.

Which could quite possibly could be a contributor to Derek’s creepy method of passiveness - the way he refuses to delete the messages, but also refuses to do actually do anything about them.  The way they’re just kind of...there.

But that’s before the eleventh message.

Because it’s somewhere around this message that they start getting a little terse.  Up until then, they were updates.  Stories and conversational topics ( _“And then Lydia kicked him in the balls!  Can you believe that?  I mean, yeah, of course you can because it’s Lydia - freaking - Martin and she’s, like, a goddess and the practical queen of MIT and all that shit - but still.  In the balls.”)_ that still make Derek roll his eyes, because this guy is obviously a Grade-A idiot.  But then message number eleven arrives and...Well, it isn’t exactly sudden.  

Somewhere around message number five was when the first shift started.  It had been slight, because his messages were still conversational and still light, but this time there was a _‘Call me.’_ added right before he hung up.  It was simple and serious, with a meaning that was then elaborated and expanded upon at the end of the next message, so that an extra tidbit of _‘seriously, dude, call me back.  Before I resort to calling Melissa, and you don’t want me to do that.  I’ll tell her about the time you and Allison stole a condom from Allison’s aunts bag - and you_ do not _want me doing that.  Trust me.’_ was tacked to the end of each new voicemail.

Derek still doesn’t know who Melissa is, but he assumes that she’s probably either incredibly frightening or incredibly sassy.  Considering his own family, Derek knows the feeling.

 _Anyways_ , message number eleven.  It’s not like the others; it isn’t conversational and there aren’t any anecdotes said at a pace that should be faster than humanly possible.  It’s simple.

_“Dude, really?  Call.  Me.  Back.”_

 

* * *

 

Ever since that last message there’s been an obvious shift.  The voicemails are a lot less slice-of-life and a lot more of the same message over and over again but with different words.  The message is almost always ‘ _call me back’,_ and the words seem to get decidedly more biting with each missed call.  They’re almost a little snippy and snarky - which Derek finds both annoying and amusing.  

Voicemail number twenty goes something like this, “ _I’m getting really tired of you ignoring me.  You don’t even ignore Allison this much and she’s you’re freaking ex-girlfriend that you’ve been purposefully avoiding for the past two months.  Hell, you don’t even ignore Jackson this much.  Jackson - fucking - Whittemore.  Do you see how fucked up this is?  Call.  Me.  Back.”_

Voicemail number thirty goes similarly, this time with the words beginning to slur with what might be desperation, _“Is this about the Jackson incident?  ‘Cause if it is, I already told you I was sorry! Hell, I’ve told Lydia to tell you I’m sorry.  Because I am!  But I don’t deserve this, man!  I don’t.  Just because I'm ass-deep in Los Angeles doesn't mean I'm not still living vicariously through you, because I totally am.  Which means it’s so not fair to just cut me off from my life-line without warning, y’know?  It’s like you’re trying to kill me.  Unless you literally are, in which case you totally should’ve warned me beforehand so I could prepare myself.  Skip a few classes, stock up on some food, make ration charts, go to a few raves, hook up a bit - that sort of stuff.  Anyways, call me back.  I’m tired of having to interrogate Erica and Boyd and Isaac and Lydia to get updates.  It isn’t fair.”_

Same message, different delivery.

Derek still ignores it.

 

* * *

 

Ignoring it has not been a good decision.  In hindsight, Derek knows that.

Primarily because it’s after message number thirty that things start imploding - or is it exploding?  Derek’s never been very good at Physics anyways; it kind of shows.  Anyways, Derek begins thinking that maybe he should do...something.  Well, something besides creepily listening to the voicemails without actually deleting them or actually calling the poor guy back - something that’s actually productive for the situation.  

In the beginning, there was about one or two messages a week, then one or two messages a day - maybe three if the guy was especially bored.  Somewhere in the middle it progressed to five messages a day - which is the range that message thirty happens to be in.  It’s only the third of the day, so Derek expects at least two more messages to be left in its wake.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is for the number of messages to immediately skyrocket.  He _especially_ doesn’t expect them to skyrocket all the way from those five measly messages every twenty four hours to somewhere around ten to twenty - in an hour.  Of course, not that Derek actually realizes it at first or anything - an unconscious decision that’s completely out of his control, he claims - because its after message number thirty that Derek starts unintentionally ignoring his phone.

He blames Laura and Peter.

Laura and Peter don’t agree on much - or really anything.  Ever.  They fight and they argue and they bicker about pretty much everything and anything possible - except for Derek’s social life.  Somehow, they both manage to have the same opinion on that; which is essentially that he doesn’t have one, but does desperately need one.  And if his mom’s to be believed, then there have even been entire, not-so-secret, three hour skype conversations codenamed _‘Saving Sourwolf’_ over the whole thing.  Derek says it’s an invasion of privacy, they say it’s simply a family obligation.

Which is complete bullshit, by the way.

But Derek already knows from years of experience that it’s not worth the argument.  That when Peter _and_ Laura both have their minds set on something, then the best you can do is hold on for the ride and hope it doesn’t kill you.  Hope is a very key word.

Derek remembers the last time they truly agreed on something, when they both decided Pecan and Pumpkin pies would be the dessert of choice at Thanksgiving one year and the only cousin who lacked the common sense to just nod his head and smile ended up with a fork stabbed straight through his hand.  Everyone blamed Peter for it - mostly because Peter was, well, Peter - but Derek highly doubted Laura had exactly tried to stop him.  

Which isn’t the point, at all.  The point is that Laura and Peter may not agree on much, but the few things they do agree on are the things they _really_ agree on.  As in they will move literal mountains just to get their way.

It’s a fact of life.  Derek’s life, most specifically.

And it’s how he finds himself at a blacklight party at at ass-o’clock in the morning, even though he can’t quite remember the train of conversation that brought them here in the first place.  The entire thing was probably Peter’s idea anyways - the party, the _actual going to_ the party, the actual _making of_ the party- and it figures.  He’s been in town one freaking day and he’s already dragging Derek places against his will.  The fact that he’s already been offered fluorescent paint three times, no-strings attached sex five times, and ecstasy six times at this particular place is irrelevant.  The fact that the music is blaring and dancing bodies are everywhere and even situated against the wall he still has mysterious, shirtless people in neon paint brushing up against him is also irrelevant.  

What’s relevant is that it’s a party Peter dragged him to, meaning its a party Peter is probably enjoying and thus a party Derek is dead set on not enjoying.  

Even if it kills him.

 

* * *

 

When they finally ( _finally)_ leave it’s because Laura insists.  

Wherein insists is just a mild term for dragging a drunkenly complaining Peter - which for Peter actually translates to his usual annoyingly snarky yet persuasively charismatic speech dulled only by a slight slur - out by the ear.  It’s something he obviously isn’t appreciative of.  Derek, on the other hand, couldn’t be more thankful.  It’s probably somewhere around five in the morning at the earliest, and even though he pretty much spent the entire time pressed up against the back wall he’s still completely and utterly exhausted.  

Because he is.  Completely and utterly exhausted.

It’s not until they’re back at the studio, once Peter’s effectively knocked out on the couch and Laura grumbling something about sleeping and not making too much noise, that he thinks about it.  Well, really, he doesn’t think about it until he’s back in his own room and he’s stripping out of his jeans for the night and his phone manages to fall out of his back pocket with a startling thunk.  The light is flashing green with missed messages, which isn’t surprising.  With how loud the music was and how compressed everyone had been, Derek doubted he could’ve heard nuclear warfare - nonetheless his phone ringing - even if he had wanted to.

He considers leaving the unread messages for morning and almost does, until he realizes it might actually be something important.   _Might._ With lazy movements and half-lidded eyes, Derek sloppily unlocks his phone; just because he’s exhausted doesn’t mean he isn’t curious and-

_Holy shit._

A message flashes across his screen which makes Derek’s eyebrows instantly shoot up; _70 New Voicemails._

Seventy.  Seventy fucking voicemails.

Derek is way too tired for this shit.

 

* * *

 

Its when Derek rolls over the next morning and realizes that he’s already missed his morning class anyways that he caves.  Running his hands over his eyes and yawning, he plucks his still flashing phone from his nightside and unlocks it.

_96 New Voicemails._

He knows he shouldn’t be surprise, but he still sort of is.  Whoever the hell this guy is, he’s persistent and Derek’s not sure whether that’s more insanely intriguing or more downright annoying.

Probably annoying.

Not that that keeps him from going through voicemails and listening to them anyways.  He gives himself excuses - because they’re interesting, because listening to a voicemail from a weird, mystery caller sounds far more appealing than having to deal with a hungover Peter, because of a lot of reasons.  Most of which involve a sort of ‘ _the lesser of two evils’_ dynamic.  

Voicemail or drunken Peter?

Voicemail or Cranky Laura?

Voicemail or getting ready ready for his next class - which is in fifteen minutes?

Voicemail it definitely is.

In the beginning, Derek would’ve sworn that this guy couldn’t have yelled at anyone even if he had tried.  He would’ve said that he was too hyperactive and too spastic, that he’d lose focus half-way through his yelling anyways and effectively forget what he was even yelling about in the first place.  

That was before Derek received Ninety-Six Voicemails all in the span of ten hours.  

It begins with mild annoyance and slight irritation, but with each message his tone begins to turn sharper and his words snappy with each syllable.  The messages in general become a gigantic mass of snarkiness and snippiness.  They’re even a little violent at times.  Somewhere around Voicemail number fifty they become simpler, clipped messages of _“Call me.”_ and nothing else.  But then he gets to Voicemail number seventy and... _oh._

Voicemail number seventy is downright sadistic.  “ _Okay, c’mon dude!  Is this punishment?  Is that what this is?  Or did you accidentally shove your phone too far up your ass again and you forgot?  I hope you did, because if your phone isn’t up your ass now then it will be.  I am going to fly up there and when I do I will shove your phone so far up your ass that you’re never gonna want to talk to Ally again.  Ever.  Not only will you have to get surgery to keep your digestive system from getting completely fucked up_ _you’ll also have to get another new phone.  Take that, motherfucker.”_

Derek begins to think he made a mistake by not calling back sooner.

Not that that persuades him from doing the rational thing - _like actually fucking calling the guy -_ but its a thought.  He continues listening to the messages, because there’s really no point in turning back now.

And besides, it’s entertaining.

Especially when he gets to the most recent voicemail.  And if he thought Voicemail number seventy was sadistic, than this one is practically mass murder by comparison.  In total, it’s the one hundred and twenty sixth voicemail, and yeah…

Maybe Derek let this continue a tad longer than he should’ve.

 _“Okay, you know how this is gonna go, Scott?”_ Shit.  Okay, so definitely wrong number.  Which Derek knew, of course he knew, he’s never had an ex-girlfriend named Allison or known anyone who’s had a crush on a chick called Lydia Martin since the first grade, but Derek’s also never been one for assumptions…. Which in hindsight, is a terrible fucking excuse.  “ _I am going to make your life hell, got it?  Because this isn’t okay.  You’re hanging me out to dry here and Lydia just keeps laughing at me and it isn’t even her ‘oh, Stiles, you’re so endearing’ laugh, it’s her ‘oh my god, you are so pathetic’ laugh, and this is coming from the chick who’s been dating Jackson Whittemore since freshman year of high school.  And she can't even do it to my face, do you know how degrading it is to be snorting at over Skype?  It's really fucking degrading.  And it's totally not cool of you, man.  So you know how this is gonna work?  You’re gonna call me back and if you don’t call me back then I.  Will.  Ruin.  You.  You hear me, Scott?  Ruin you.  I'm persistent, y'know, and a ten hour drive isn't all that daunting to someone like me.  I hope you know that, right?  Because with where we're at, I'm pretty much five seconds away from saying 'fuck it' to Winter Break and driving my ass up there early - all just to make your life hell.  You should be fucking flattered.  I'd be missing a week of classes for you - I'm sure UCLA won't mind,  'specially not in the name of some good old brotherly revenge - but it'll be sooooo worth it.  'Cause you know what I'm gonna do?  Next time I'm in town and you meet Allison for one of your ‘not quite friends, but not quite not friends’ lunches, I’m gonna put wasabi in your food.  Y'know, the stuff that makes your face gets all red and you start sweating and - oh, hey!  I’ll also put it in your drink, so that whenever you take a drink it’ll just make it worse.  Maybe your face will even puff up, which makes me wonder… You think Allison likes puffer fish?  Because if she does then you’re in business, my friend.  And hey?  Did you know one of my roommates is a programmer?  No?  Oh, right, you’d actually have to - oh, I don’t know -_ FUCKING CALL ME THE FUCK BACK TO KNOW THAT!   _Anyways, he’s a programmer and I’ve been picking up a lot of stuff from him, so guess what buddy?  I’m gonna get your laptop and I’m gonna fuck with it.  Y'know, it's a good thing you're a technological dinosaur with windows 7, or else this wouldn’t work.  I’m gonna write a nice little script just for you that makes it so every time you try and use chrome, it’s gonna open internet explorer instead.  Actually, even better than that, I’m just gonna go ahead and make every single shortcut, program, link -_ everything - _reroute to a new Internet Explorer tab.  Good luck with that one.  And then I’m gonna get your phone - thank god you have an iphone - and I’m gonna fuck your autocorrect shortcuts like nobody’s business.  You try to text ‘hey Allison, wanna get lunch’ and y’know what it’s gonna say instead?  ‘hey, Allison, wanna suck cock together?’.  I’m sure she’ll_ love _that.  And then I’ll change all the articles - y’know, like the, a, an - and I’m gonna change them to the Baby Got Back lyrics.  Oooohhh~ and I’ll change ‘Mom’ to ‘Scott McCall sucks dick’.  Melissa will be all over that.  I’ll change ‘Stiles’ to ‘the secret King of my heart, my soul, and the universe’, because I’m awesome like that, and Lydia can be ‘the Queen of everything, even if she does have shitty taste in boyfriends’.  There’s more, trust me there’s so much more and that’s only the beginning because your life is going to be hell, but it’s no fun if I tell you_ everything _on the off chance you do actually listen to these and you’ve just been ignoring me the past month.  Good luck, motherfucker.”_

Derek stares at his phone.

He should probably call this guy.  Or maybe he shouldn’t.  Because this guy can obviously make a person’s life a living hell and Derek’s not quite sure if he really wants to put that kind of wrath on himself.

But then there’s the part of him - probably the part he inherited from Peter - that tells him it’ll be fun.  And then there’s this other part - probably something he managed to pick up from his mother - that tells him calling is the right thing to do, the thing he _should’ve_ done forever ago.  And then there’s this third part - probably the part that he got from Laura - that reminds him the sooner he calls, the sooner he can stop being spammed by passive aggressive voicemails that are way more aggressive than they will ever be passive.  And wouldn’t that be nice?

So, he calls.

And the greeting is just about as bitchy and aggressive and pissed as Derek expected it to be.

_“Oh, well look who’s finally calling back, Scott ‘Doesn’t-Answer-His-Fucking-Phone’ McCall.  How’s life in douchebag land?”_

Derek almost doesn’t know what to say to that - actually… Not almost, he really doesn’t know.  And not just because this kid is as aggressive as fuck, but also because no one’s ever told Derek how you deal with someone who’s left one hundred and twenty-six voice messages on your phone, thinking you’re someone else.  The proper way to deal with it probably would’ve been to call him back after voicemail number one, but that’s aside the point.

Eventually, he settles on clearing his throat before the silence becomes too awkward to bear, because clearing your throat has always been the universal way to solve all the world’s problems.  It seems to work though, when there’s a sharp inhale of breath from the other side of the line.

“ _You’re not Scott...are you?”_

Derek gives a slight huff, because while this guy may be technologically devious and conversationally hyperactive he’s also really, _really_ dense.  “Not the last time I checked.  Although I hear a lot can change in five minutes, maybe identities is included in that.”

There’s a huff from the other end of the line, “ _See, now you’re just being an asshole.”_

Derek shrugs even though he knows the guy can’t see him. “You’re the one who kept calling the wrong number.”

 _“Which you didn’t think tell me One Hundred and Twenty-Six missed calls and Voicemails ago, why…?”_ Stiles trails off and Derek has to admit, it’s a good question.  A question he’s been asking himself a lot lately, which probably isn’t a good thing.

Derek sort of ducks his head, even though its a useless gesture.  This guy can’t see him, can’t read his facial expressions - which, for all intents and purposes, is probably a good thing.

“I just thought you were someone I vaguely knew and thought I’d catch your next call.” The excuse sounds just as terrible out loud as it did in his head, but it’s not like Derek can take it back.  And now that it’s been said, he might as well go with it.

Even if the guy does snort heavily from the other end of the line, the sound dry and sarcastic and Derek can just imagine - even though he has no idea what this person looks like - that he’s rolling his eyes as dramatically as he can manage.  “ _And do you always ignore messages from your friends with the hope that maybe you’ll catch them the next time they call_?”

Derek refuses to answer that.  Partly because the sheer sass dripping from the response makes him speechless and also because he’s never been great with discussing his personal quirks with his own damn mother, never mind some stranger he just meet via one-hundred and twenty six missed calls to the wrong number.  

And besides, it’s perfectly logical.  He doesn’t like talking on the phone - simple as that.  And if someone calls him and it’s really important and they really need to talk to him then they’ll call again when he’s able to get to his phone.  Or, if they’re like half his family, they’ll hunt him down until they can corner him in a dark alley with no escape and force him to answer their typically intrusive and invasive questions.

There’s a beat of silence between the two that’s just a beat too long, before Derek gruffly huffs and rumbles into the receiver, “Whatever.  You got the wrong number.”

With a jab that’s perhaps a little too aggressive, he ends the call.

 

* * *

 

It ends just like it started - abruptly.

It happens three weeks later, when Derek finds himself in Beacon Hills for Christmas Break, despite repeatedly telling himself that he has too much weighing on him staying in New York - a job that he has yet to find, an apartment he still has to pay rent on, new classes he has to prepare for, a portfolio he still has to finish.  But his mom is convincing and Peter - who threatened to extend his stay _even more_ if Derek didn’t return for at least a day or two - is annoying.  And it’s both of those things that have him sitting in a coffee shop at eleven in the morning waiting for his mom, a steaming cup of straight, black coffee and an e-mail that could probably wait until later anyways sitting in front of him.

He checks his watch before darting his eyes to the door; there’s still five minutes before she’s considered late.  Which means she’ll probably walk in right at ten minutes, claiming that ‘ _A queen is never late, you’re merely early’_ with the kind of smile that makes it impossible for Derek to stay irritated.

He’s been having that problem a lot lately, being unable to stay irritated at his mother.  Its something that he figures is a result of New York - distance making the heart grow fonder, or something like that.  At least that’s what Laura tells him, which typically means she’s either so right its creepy or so off base it _might_ make Peter look sane.  There’s simply no in between when it comes to her.  Gray matter is imaginary and ‘maybes’ are never an acceptable response.  If it isn’t black or white then it doesn’t exist.  

Which is part of the reason why Derek’s secretly glad she stayed in New York.  Breaks are good.  They’re healthy.  Even if their break is because Laura’s firm is a bitch; Derek’ll take what he can get.  

Well, correction: he’ll usually take what he can get.  He’ll take what he can get when taking what he can get _doesn’t_ leave him to deal with Peter on the flight back.  Alone.  With no one to save him.  Which wasn’t even the original plan.  

_But no._

Because _someone_ just had to stay a week longer than originally planned.

Laura had not been happy about that.  At all.

And after that flight, neither had Derek.

“But I’m tellin’ you man, it’s weird.  She did that whole squinty thing she does when she knows I’m not telling the truth, but doesn’t know how to get me to _actually_ tell the truth and...y’know what?  She’s just weird in general.  I mean, what am I supposed to do?  I can’t ignore her for forever because…”

Derek freezes.

“Because it’s Lydia?”

“Exactly!  It’s Lydia and I swear to god Lydia knows everything.  I don’t know how, but she does.  It’s really creepy, actually.  And y'know she started buying me clothes?  We've only been on winter break for four days, goddamnit, and she's already back to sneaking clothes into my closet.  Yesterday I came home to four shirts, three sweaters, five pairs of jeans and a pair of slacks in my closet that I swear to god I've never seen before.  This isn't okay, Scott.  It's an invasion of privacy."

No.  That can’t…It couldn’t.

"It's an endangerment to your man card."

"Thank you!  I thought Massachusetts was supposed to make her less...Lydia.  If anything it's only made her more..."

But... Derek would've...

"Crazy?"

"Kinda.  I blame Jackson.  And her sorority friends.  They're freakin' insane, man.  And I guess some of them are kinda, sorta from the area-ish, which... is good.  For Lydia.  Keeps her entertained with something that doesn't involve giving yours truly the eyebrows of death," The loud voice slightly falters and Derek swears he can hear a shudder, "Except the only reason I even know any of this is because she keeps trying to set me up with them, which is a lot less good. Actually, it's just plain not okay.  Like, on so many levels.  I mean they’re cool and all, but-”

“They’re sorority girls?”

“Yeah?  I mean, I guess?  They’re just not what I’m looking for, y’know?  Actually, no, you probably don’t know since all you’re looking for is a girl with brown hair and brown eyes with a wicked sense for archery and a name that just happens to be an alliteration.”

There’s a silence, probably a result from what Derek guesses is a shrug from his peripherals.  It’s probably nothing.  The voices sound similar - this voice, the voice of a guy who just entered the coffee shop with what looks to be a friend, and the voice of his mystery leaver of voice mails - but that’s not possible.  The phone number’s area code wasn’t from Beacon Hills - Derek would’ve recognized it - and...he’s probably just imagining it.  He _wants_ the voices to sound similar, so they do.  

And don’t phone lines distort voices anyways?  Exactly.

Just another reason to prefer face-to-face contact.

The two guys settle in at the table to Derek’s left, but he tries not to pay them much attention.  Tries not to be any more creepy than he already has the natural tendency for being.  Which doesn’t really stop him much, considering he still manages to notice that the one with the familiar voice is sitting towards him…

But that’s where he draws the line.  Because eavesdropping is just plain creepy and despite being related to Peter Hale, Derek really does try not to be creepy in daily interactions.  It just doesn’t always work.  

Like right now, when he’s desperately _trying_ not to eavesdrop, but still somehow manages to anyways.  He blames it on the fact that the familiar voice obviously belongs to someone who doesn’t understand the concept of inside voices.  In the end,  it’s almost takes more effort to not listen to what he’s saying, especially when-

_Oh shit._

“I left him, like one hundred and twenty six messages, Scott.  You’d think he would’ve responded by at least the tenth, but nope.  He just let me keep calling because that’s - y’know - not totally creepy or anything.  And I totally thought it was you the entire time, just that you were ignoring me like the dickwad you are.  It took me threatening him - well, actually I was threatening you, but now it could totally apply to him - that I would fuck up his technological life with programming skills I don’t even have to finally call me and tell that I have the wrong number.  Like, seriously dude?  Thanks for telling me _after_ you’ve already effectively managed to invade my privacy.  Too little, too late.”

Derek swallows as he, against his better judgment, allows himself a small look…

 _Oh, he is so fucked.  So, so, so fucked._  

This guy...he’s absolutely ridiculous.  That’s what it is, he’s ridiculous.  He has these broad shoulders and this dark hair that’s messy in all the right places and moles that splatter his skin in almost addicting patterns.  Derek groans.  Eventually, he just ends up smacking his forehead against the palm of his hand _because this kid._ Derek literally cannot handle him right now.Especially now, when he has _these_ eyes that kind of sparkle and are probably the best brown eyes Derek has ever seen.  They shatter with the light, splintering into colors of hazel and caramel and green and blue and... _ugh._ This entire kid is ridiculous.  

Especially his mouth.His motherfucking mouth alone should have to come with a permit, what with how _freaking red_ his lips are _._ And the way they’re just side of plump?  Not helpful.  Actually, scratch permits.  His mouth should be plain illegal.  Sure would save Derek a lot of trouble.  Especially with the way he talks - so animated and full of _life -_ it takes legitimate effort to not stare.

God, Derek is so fucked.  

He briefly contemplates trying to start a conversation, but 1) Derek has never been great at conversation starters, or really conversations in general that aren’t chock-full of snark and sarcasm, and 2) he doesn’t feel as if introducing himself as the creepy asshole who refused to return any of his misplaced calls to tell him he was calling the wrong number - like any _normal_ human being would’ve done - would go over well.

Derek groans.  Again.

Which is the perfect time for his mother to enter the shop, even if she is a minute late.  Lateness be damned, Derek doesn’t care.  Because bless her.   _Bless her_ and every single bone in her body and every single hair on her head and just _bless her._

Bless all of her.

She greets him in the way she greets all her children - by kissing him on each cheek and ruffling his hair, because Talia Hale is nothing if not the epitome of a mother.  She smiles widely and hands him a cardboard cup of coffee (Derek pointedly refuses to mention that he already has a cup clearly sitting in front of him, because Talia is his mother and that’s what mothers do), but not before telling him how good it is to see him and how sad it is that work keeps giving them conflicting schedules.  He tells her its fine, because it is - even if she doesn’t really believe him.

It takes all of five minutes before the conversation begins to shift in a dangerous direction.  It’s a direction Derek would very much like to avoid, as in a u-turn right about now would be incredibly helpful.  Or maybe a nice little implosion to act as a distraction.  “So Derek,” His mother leans back in her chair.  Her lips are pursed and her eyebrows raised with curiosity - a mannerism he knows he picked up from her over the years. “Last time we talked you briefly mentioned something about voicemails?  Laura tells me you’ve been having quite the adventure with those.”

Her expression is fond, but pointed.

“Ah,” Derek gives a sort of smile, scratching the back of his neck as he tries to forget that _he’s right fucking there._ Which isn’t easy to forget and… Actually, it’s impossible to forget - but he tries.  An A+ for effort.  “Yeah, it was nothing, really.  Just some guy who got the wrong number and kept leaving messages on my phone,” He waves it off with a brush of his hand, “It was nothing, really?”

His mom hums, “But you did call him back?”

Derek falters, his cheeks begin to turn a faint pink - a secret he will carry to the grave, he’s sure - when he realizes the table to his left has gone completely quiet, “Yeah…?”

“ _Derek.”_

“Mom,” He rolls his eyes, even though the effect is completely lost with his cheeks progressively darkening, “Of course I called him back.  It just may have taken One Hundred and Twenty Six voicemails for me to do that.”

“Derek!” His mom admonishes with a playful hit to his forearm, even as her son sheepishly rubs the back of his neck.  “That poor boy probably thought whoever he was calling was ignoring him, I know I taught you better manners than this.”

“Mom, it’s not a big deal,” Even though it is.  It’s a very big deal.  The table to his left is still quiet and Derek swears he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.  The telltale sign of unwanted staring.

Talia gives another humming sound and flashes him a knowing look, “Unless you didn’t call him back because you liked hearing him talk?”

Nope.  No.  Derek is done.  He is out and done - preferably before his cheeks turn any redder and before his mom starts flashing the whole restaurants those knowing looks.  Her eyes are sparkling with knowledge, as if she knows something no one else does.  

Nope.  Not even.

“That’s… No, mom.  Just…” Derek sputters around the rim of his coffee cup, “I didn’t call him back because I thought it might’ve been someone I know but don’t really talk to and I figured that if they really needed me they’d call me back when I wasn’t preoccupied.”

But the look Talia flashes him is hardly convinced and hardly impressed.   _Great._ “And it took you One Hundred and Twenty-Six voicemails to figure out that wasn’t the case?”

Derek can practically feel the smugness rolling off from the left.  It takes everything within him not to snarl.

“It’s hard to stay focused when the person leaving you messages is a hyperactive rambler that can go from talking about the newest episode of _The Voice_ to the merits of blueberry pie in under five seconds,” He dryly retorts, knowing full well that his comment’s been heard.  

“Mmmhmmm,” Again, less than impressed.  Even as she’s digging her vibrating cell phone from her bag, her eyebrows are still raised with motherly disapproval and her eyes a mixture between fond exasperation and fond criticism.  “I need to take this, dear.  Just give me a second and we’ll continue discussing your horrifically nonexistent affinity for creating excuses.  Peter would be disappointed,” She says, almost to the point of mouthing the end, before pressing her phone to her cheek and primly asking _Hello?._  Derek watches as she strides to the coffee shops double doors, her lips mouthing words a mile per minute in that way which screams _Hale._

Derek sighs and-

He knows it’s stupid and he knows it’s probably not something he should do.  He knows that.  He’s well aware how he _should_ be handling the situation - he should ignore it.  Especially with how pink his cheeks are.  And how utterly unprepared he is to deal with this.  But...

But he doesn’t.

Instead he risks a glance over his shoulder at the table and - _yep._

The guy is definitely staring at him.  And not even that, he’s staring at him like he’s some kind of ghost.  An apparition that shouldn’t be there - and hey!  Wouldn’t that be a nice little thing, to be an apparition?  An invisible force.

_“You!”_

Or maybe not.  Derek sends a shy, fleeting smile towards the guy because yeah - _he totally fucked up and he perfectly knows it._ He imagines that he’s gonna get yelled at.  That this guy is gonna snark at him because sometimes Derek is an idiot and sometimes he doesn’t always listen to the right part of his brain and sometimes he really, really knows that.

But...this guy doesn’t do any of that.  He just stares at Derek.  Which is odd.  But then his mouth kind of opens and drops into this perfect little ‘o’ and Derek almost thinks he’s going to say something but he doesn’t know what.  But then he also almost thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to know and-

But before that thought even has a chance to continue, his mother returns and, _because seriously, bless her,_ she changes the subject.

They talk about a lot of things, and thankfully none of those things involve voicemails from a certain mystery person who’s not so much of a mystery anymore.  Instead, they’re all things any normal mother and her son would talk about, like school and a possible internship Derek is looking into.  They talk about Laura and her unhealthy levels of caffeine consumption.  They talk about Peter and putting restrictions on how many times he is allowed to visit New York in a year because no.  Just no.  They talk about Cora and her anger management classes, ( _“I’m really starting to see an improvement in your sister, Derek.  At the last family gathering, she only tried to stab your brother’s eye out once.  Only once, Derek.  Isn’t that great?”)_ and Malia and her penchant for somehow managing to be a thousand times worse than her father.

Derek hadn't even known that was possible until now.

They talk and they drink and if Derek sneaks the occasional look over his shoulder, then his mother doesn’t mention it.  ( _Seriously, bless her.  Bless her freaking heart and soul.)_ She doesn’t even act like she notices, even if her eyes do glint in that certain way of hers.  

Its probably one hour and too many glances over his shoulder later that, after giving a rather guilty look at her watch, Talia announces they should probably leave - but not before a refill, of course.  His mother offers to do it, snatching up (one of) Derek’s coffee cup(s) before he can say anything otherwise and…

He waits.

He sneaks (another) small glance over his shoulder, and…nothing.  Just like every other time.  The guy is talking in animated gestures with his friend, so engrossed in his own story-telling that everything else is mere background noise.  His eyes are kind of sparkling and his lips are moving faster than Derek has ever thought is humanly possible and his hands are waving and his elbows alternate between leaning on the table and shoving at the air around him.  

Derek can’t help but think that he's missed his chance.  

Maybe he should’ve done something more than smile like a sheepish idiot, but he kind of is a sheepish idiot so it wasn’t like it was a misrepresentation or anything.  He waits for his mom to return, but nothing happens.  Derek refuses to admit that he’s disappointed.  

But he is.  As he gets up from the table and meets his mom in the middle of the store, grabbing one of the coffees from her hand, he’s disappointed.  And as they silently begin towards the big, double doors, he can’t help but think that he really has missed his chance and-

He feels something - _someone? -_ tap at his shoulder and before Derek really has a chance to even think about any of it, he’s instantly whipping around and… he falters.  Because he’s there.  The guy is actually there and he looks just about as sheepish as Derek feels and… Wow.  He’s rubbing the back of his neck nervously and his bottom lip is wedged in between the top row of his teeth - which is practically killing any chances of ever taming Derek libido, in case anyone wants to know - and he’s shyly smiling.  

“Uh… So this is _my_ phone number,” He thrusts forward a napkin that smells distinctly of sharpie and is adorned with sloppy handwriting. “So you, um,  don’t reach the wrong person and end up leaving over a hundred messages on their phone and them never tell you.  And...uh...whenever _I_ miss a call I always call back.   _Always.”_

Derek swears he can the almost silent inhale of his mom snickering, but he doesn’t care.  He _really_ doesn’t care.  He doesn’t care that his grin might be borderline idiotic and he doesn’t care that the way he practically snatches the napkin from the guy’s hands might be a tad too eager - manners be damned.  He doesn’t care about a lot of things, apparently.

“You probably wanna know my name though, huh?.  So you can stop calling me ‘that one hot dude’ in your head, or maybe that’s just a me thing.  Because right now, you’re definitely ‘that one super hot dude with the amazing baritone voice’ to me and...” He falters, mouth slightly freezing and cheeks turning bright red.  “And that’s something I definitely should’ve kept to myself, huh?”

Derek’s eyebrows raise with surprise and curiosity, but he knows his facial expression is fond.

“My name’s...uh, Stiles, by the way.  And you can just forget everything that I just said.”

But Derek just smiles because the name Stiles, it’s...fitting.  And it flows.  Sounds nice on the tongue.  Or maybe that’s just a personal preference.  “Derek.  My name’s Derek.”

 

* * *

 

The instant they get into his mother’s car, Derek instantly regrets every decision in his life ever.  What he regrets the most, however, is agreeing to the bright idea of carpooling back to the house.  They leave Derek’s camero at the coffee shop and with it every shred of dignity he ever had the fortune of owning.  

Usually, being trapped in a confined space with Talia for a long period of time isn’t an issue.   _Usually._ Because usually, she isn’t insistent on spending the entire time teasing and poking and prodding at Derek with every chance she gets.

But she is.  She’s entirely insistent

And she’s enjoying herself far too much, if he has any say in it.

Which means it’s no wonder that when they finally arrive to the house, Derek’s so thankful he could kneel down and pray.  Because the house is a sanctuary.  It’s a safe place of sorts.  A haven in a world full of Hale-induced insanity.  It’s big enough to hide from his Talia’s teasing and her motherly poking and prodding, and spacious en-

“ _DEREK MET A BOY~!”_

Or...maybe not.

**Author's Note:**

> In case any of you are wondering, the programming script Stiles mentioned is completely and utterly possible. One of my programmer friends decided to do that to me on April Fool's and let me tell you, it's not fun. It's a pain in the ass.  
> Hope you enjoy! And if any of you would like I also lurk on [Tumblr](se7endevil.tumblr.com). Drop me an ask, send me some fanmail, give me a prompt, fling some hate at me. Y'know, whatever goes.


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